Underdogs (15 page)

I only know that I’m a new kind of afraid.

You know how dogs whine when they’re afraid, like when a storm’s coming? Well, I feel like doing it right now. I feel like asking questions, in desperation.

When did this happen?

How did it happen?

Why did he change so quickly?

Why aren’t I happy for himWhy does it scare me?

And why can’t I put my finger on exactly what it is?

All of those questions swing through me, eroding me a little each time. They swing through me during my brother’s next few fights. All knockouts. They swing through me each time he stands over his man, telling him to get up, and when the people touch him to grab a little piece of his greatness. I ask the same questions in the dressing room, among the smell of liniment and gloves and sweat. I ask them the next time I see Rube get it off with a nineteen-year-old uni student behind the Maroubra factory, before he walks away from her (without looking back). Then the next time a different girl. Then the next. I ask the questions at home when we eat our dinner with Mum pouring out the soup, and Sarah eating it politely, and Dad eating more failure
with his meal. Putting it in his mouth. Chewing it. Tasting it. Swallowing it. Digesting it. Getting used to it. I ask them when Sarah and I wrestle some washing off the line. (“Damn it!” she yells. “It’s raining! Hey Cam! Come help us get the washing off!” Just lovely, the two of us sprinting out back and ripping it all off the line, not caring if it’s in shreds, just as long as it’s bloody dry.) I even ask the questions when I smell my socks to see if they can go one more day or if I should wash them next shower. I ask them when I go and visit Steve at his new place and he gives me a cup of black coffee and a silent, friendly conversation.

Finally, someone else arrives to help me out a bit.

It’s Mrs. Wolfe, who, thankfully, has some questions of her own. The best thing about this is that maybe she can get something out of Rube to help me understand him better. Also, she has chosen a night and a week in which I’ve won my last fight, so I don’t have any bruises on me.

It’s a Wednesday night, and Rube and I sit on our front porch with Miffy, patting him after his walk. The little wonder dog laps up the attention on the old lounge. He rolls on his stomach as Rube and I pat him and laugh at his ridiculous little fangs and claws.

“Oh Miffy!” Rube breathes out, and it’s the shadow of his former callings for the dog when we used to pick him up. He only laughs now with something inside the voice of his throat.

What is it?

Regret?

Remorse?

Anger?

I don’t know, but Mrs. Wolfe, she can sense it as well, and she has joined us now on the front porch, in the cold, dim light.

I love Mrs. Wolfe.

I’ve gotta tell you that right now.

I love Mrs. Wolfe because she’s brilliant and she’s a genius even though her cooking’s downright oppressive. I love her because she fights like hell. She fights better than Rube. Even Rube will tell you that — though her fight has nothing to do with fists. But it has plenty to do with blood….

Her words tonight are these:

“What’s up boys? Why are you always coming home so late on Sundays?” She smiles, alone. “I know that you were going down to the dog track not so long ago. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”

I look at her. “How’d y’ find that out?”

“Mrs. Craddock,” she confesses.

“Bloody Craddock!” I yelp. Mrs. Craddock, a neighbor of ours, was always at the dogs, chewing a hot dog with her false teeth, and sinking Carlton Cold beer like there was no tomorrow. Not to mention smoking Long Beach 25s till the cows came home.

“Forget the dogs,” Mum sighs.

She talks.

We listen.

We have to.

When you love and respect someone, you listen.

“Now, I know things are rough at the moment, fellas, but just do me a favor and come home at a decent hour. Try to get here before dark.”

I break.

“Okay Mum.”

Rube doesn’t.

He says, straight and hard, “We’ve been goin’ down to the gym. Sunday afternoons it’s cheaper, and you can learn boxing.”

Boxing.

Nice one, Rube.

We know how Mum feels about boxing.

“Is that what you want to do?” she asks, and her mild tone is surprising. I think she knows she can’t stop us. She knows the only way is to let us find out. She continues and ends with two words. “Boxing? Really?”

“It’s safe. All supervised and taken care of. Not like we used to do in the backyard. None of the one-handed rubbish.”

Which isn’t a lie. Yes, the fights
are
supervised and taken care of, but by whom? It’s funny how truth and lies can come in the same clothes. They wear flanno shirts, gym boots, jeans, and Ruben Wolfe’s lips.

“Just look after each other.”

“We will,” and I smile at Mrs. Wolfe because I want her to think that everything’s all right. I want her
going to work without worrying about us. She deserves at least that.

Rube gives her an “Okay.”

“Good.”

“We’ll try to get back quicker,” he goes on, before Mum returns inside. First she pats Miffy for a while, running her dry fingers through our friend’s softfluffy fur.

“Look at this dog,” I say once she’s gone. Just to say something. Anything. “What about him?”

I’m lost, and unsure what to say. “I guess, we’ve got to liking him, ay.”

“But what does liking do?” Rube looks at the road. “It doesn’t do anything.”

“Does hating?”

“What have we got to hate?” He’s laughing now. The truth is, there’s a lot to hate, and a lot to love. Love.

The people. Hate.

The situation.

Behind us we hear Mum cleaning up the kitchen. We turn and see the silhouette of our dad helping her. We see him kiss her on the cheek.

He is unemployed.

He still loves her.

She loves him.

Watching it, I see the handful of fights that Rube and I have had inside the warehouses and factories. They’re pale, I decide. Pale in comparison. There’s a vision also of Sarah, putting overtime in (as she’s been known to do lately), or even just watching TV or reading. There’s even a vision of Steve, out there on his own, living. Mainly though, it’s Mum and Dad. Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe.

I think about Fighting Ruben Wolfe.

I think about fighting Ruben Wolfe.

From the inside.

I think about finding Ruben Wolfe….

I think about fights you know you’ll win, fights you know you’ll lose, and the fights you just don’t know about. I think about the ones in between.

It’s me now who looks at the road.

I speak.

Talk.

Say it.

I say, “Don’t lose your heart, Rube.” And very clearly, without moving, my brother answers me.

He says, “I’m not tryin’ to lose it, Cam. I’m tryin’ to find it.”

Tonight, there’s nothing
.

There’s no “Hey Rube, are you awake?”

No “Of course I bloody am!
”

There’s just silence.

Silence, Rube and me.

A the darkness
.

He’s awake, though. I can sense it. I can feel it, just out of reach from my vision
.

There are no voices from the kitchen.

There’s no world but this one.

This room.

This air
.

This awake-ness
.

In the half-consciousness of Saturday morning, I’m dreaming of women, flesh, and fights.

The first fills me with fear.

The second fills me with thrill.

The third fills me with more fear.

My blanket covers me. Only my human snout sticks out the top, allowing me to breathe.

“We goin’ for a run?” I ask across to Rube.

Is he still asleep?

“Rube?”

An answer. “Nah, not today.”

Good
, I think.
This blanket might be full of fear, but it’s still pretty warm under here. Besides, I reckon we could use a rest
.

“I wanna do a bit of work later though,” Rube continues. “Gotta work on my jab. Can we do some One Punch later in the backyard?”

“I thought we were finished with that. Like you said to Mum.”

“Well, we’re not. I’ve changed my mind.” He rolls over but still talks. “You could use some work on your own jab too, y’ know.” He’s right.

“Okay.”

“So stop whingein’.”

“I don’t mind.” It’s the truth. “It’ll be fun anyway. Like the old days.” “Damn right.” “Good.”

We return to sleep. For me, it’s back to the flesh, fighting, and women.
What’s it back to for Rube
? I wonder.

Once we’re up and the day progresses, Mum, Dad, and Sarah go to Steve’s place, to see how he’s going. It’s our golden opportunity to train. We take it.

As we always do now, we go over and get Miffy.

From our back step, the pooch looks up at us. He licks his lips.

We circle the

Rube hits me, but I hit back. He gets more in than me, but about every second punch Rube gets in, I get one back. He becomes a little frustrated.

When we have a break, he says, “I’ve gotta be quicker. Quicker once the jab goes out. Quicker to block.”

“Yeah, but what happens in your fights,” I tell him, “is that you throw a jab or two and follow it with your left. Your left’s always quicker than the counterpunch.”

“I know, but what if I come up against a real good counterpuncher? Then I’m in trouble.”

“I doubt it.” “Do y’?”

From there, we practice more and then swap gloves for a bit of fun. Back to the old days all right. One glove
each, circling the backyard, each throwing punches. Smiling at hitting. Smiling at being hit. We don’t go all out, because we both have to fight tomorrow, so there are no bruises and no blood.
It’s funny
, I think, as we crouch and I watch Rube, who also crouches with that look on his face. Just content.
It’s funny when we fight one-handed in our backyard, that’s when I feel closest to my brother. That’s when it feels strongest that we’re brothers and always will be
. I feel it, watching him, and when he gives me a slight Ruben Wolfe grin, Miffy flings himself at him, and Rube mock-fights him, letting Miffy curl around his solitary glove.

“Bloody Miffy,” he smirks. There are glimpses.

Later, the tempo changes back to what has become normal.

We’re sitting in our room, and Rube pulls open the wretched corner of carpet next to my bed. In one envelope is his money. In the other is mine. Rube’s envelope holds three hundred and fifty dollars. Mine holds about one sixty. Rube has won seven fights from seven starts. My own money comes from two wins and the rest of it is tips.

Rube sits on his bed and counts his money.

“All there?” I inquire.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I was only bloody askin’!”

He looks at me.

Thinking about it, it’s actually the first time in a while that either of us has raised his voice in real anger
at the other. We used to do it all the time. It was normal. Almost fun. A regular occurrence. Today, however, it’s like a bullet, buried deep into the flesh of our brotherhood. It’s a bullet of doubt, a bullet of not knowing.

Outside the window, the city counts the seconds, as we sit there in silence.

One — two — three — four —

More words get to their feet.

They belon

He says, “Are the dogs on today?”

“I think so, yeah. Saturday the eighth. Yep, that’s today.”

“You wanna go down?”

“Yeah, why not?” I smile. “We might see those cops again and have a laugh.”

“Yeah, they’re all right, those two.”

I take a handful of my tip change and chuck some of it Rube’s way.

“Thanks.”

I put ten bucks in my jacket pocket. “No worries.”

We put our shoes on and leave the house. We write a note saying we’ll be back before dark, and place it on the kitchen table. It goes next to the
Herald
. That paper — it sits there, open at the employment section. It sits there like a war, and each small advertisement is another trench for a person to dive into. To hope and fight in.

We stare at it.

We pause.

We know.

Rube drinks some milk out of the carton, puts it back in the fridge, and we walk out, leaving the war on the table, with the note.

Outside, we walk.

Out the front door and beyond the gate.

We’re in our usual gear. We’re jeaned, flanno-ed, gymmied, and jacketed. Rube’s jacket is corduroy. It’s brown and old and ridiculous, but typically, he looks downright brilliant in it. Mine’s my black spray jacket, and I’d say I look about okay. Or at least, I hope. Somewhere on the border of it anyway.

We walk, and the smell of street is raucous. It shoots through me and I enjoy it. The city buildings in the distance are holding up the sky, it seems. The sky is blue and bright, and the strides of Rube and I walk toward it. We used to languish when we walked, or sidle down the street like dogs that have just done something wrong. Now Rube walks upright, because he’s on the attack.

We get to the track and it’s about one o’clock.

“Look,” I point. “It’s Mrs. Craddock.”

As expected, she’s sitting in the stand, holding a hot dog in one hand and balancing a coldie and a cigarette in the other. The smoke smothers her and divides either side.

“Hi fellas,” she calls to us, moving the cigarette to her lips. Or is she taking a chug on the beer? She has brown-gray hair, purple lipstick, a scrunched nose, and wears an old dress and thongs. She’s big. A big woman.

“Hey Mrs. Craddock,” we greet her. (It was the beer she was after,
then
a quick inhalation“How y’ goin’?”

“Beautifully, thanks. Nothin’ better than a day with the dogs.”

“That’s for sure.” But I’m thinking,
Whatever y’ say, love
. “Who do y’ like in the next one?” She grins.

Oh man. It’s not pretty. Those falsies …

“Number two,” she advises. “Peach Sunday.”

Peach Sunday. Peach Sunday? What sort of person calls a greyhound Peach Sunday? They should get together with whoever called that other dog You Bastard.

“Can she gallop?” I ask.

“That’s horses, love,” Craddock answers. See how infuriating she is? Can she really think that
I
think I’m at the horse track? “And it’s a he.”

“Well?” Rube asks. “Is he a certainty?”

“Sure as I’m sittin’ here.”

“Well, she’s sittin’ here all right.” Rube nudges me on our way. “All three hundred pounds of her.”

We turn and bid her good-bye.

Me: “Bye, Mrs. Craddock.”

Rube: “Yeah, see y’ later. Thanks for the tip.”

We look around. Our cop mates aren’t here, so we have to hunt for someone else to put the bet on for us. It won’t be hard. A voice finds us.

“Hey Wolves!”

It’s Perry Cole, holding his customary beer, as well as a grin. “What are a couple of respectable young lads such as yourselves doin’ down here?”

“Just puttin’ a few on,” Rube replies. “Can y’ slap a bet on for us?”

“Of course.”

“Race three, number two.”

“Right.”

He puts it on for us and we go down to the sunny part of the grandstand, where Perry sits in a big group. He introduces us, tells everyone what gunfighters we are (or Rube, at least), and we watch. There are some ugly guys and girls there, but some nice girls too. One of them is our age and pretty. Dark hair, cut short. Eyes of sky. She’s skinny and she smiles at us, polite and shy.

“That’s Stephanie,” Perry tells us as he rattles through the names. Her face is tanned and sweet. Her neck and throat are smooth, and she wears a pale blue shirt, a bracelet, and old jeans. She’s got gymmies on, like us. I notice her arms and her wrists and her hands and fingers. They’re finine and beautiful and delicate. No rings. Just the bracelet.

All the other people talk, behind us.

So where do y’ live
? I ask, inside. No words come out.

“So, where do y’ live?” Rube asks her, but his voice is so different from the voice that I would have used. His is said to be said. Not said to be nice.

“Glebe.”

“Nice area.”

Me, I say nothing.

I only look at her and her lips and her straight white teeth when she speaks. I watch the breeze run its fingers through her hair. I watch it breathe onto her neck. I even watch the air go into her mouth. Into her lungs, and back out …

She and Rube talk about regular things. School. Home. Friends. What bands they’ve seen lately of which Rube has seen none. He just makes it up.

Me?

I would never lie to her.

I promise.

“Go!”

It’s everyone yelling as the dogs get let out and take off around the track. “Go Peach Sunday!”

Rube stands and yells with the rest of the people. “Go Peaches! Go son!”

As he does so, I look at Stephanie. Peach Sunday doesn’t concern me anymore, even when he wins by two lengths and Rube slaps me on the back, and Perry slaps us
both
on the back.

“Old Craddock’s all right then, ay!” Rube shouts at me, and faintly, I smile. Stephanie smiles also, at both of us. We’ve just made sixty-five dollars. Our first real win at the track. Perry collects it for us.

We decide to stay ahead from there and we just hang around and watch for the rest of the afternoon, till
the shadows grow long and lean. When the crowd disperses after the last race, Perry invites us to his place for what he calls, “Food, drinks, and anything else you might need.”

“No thanks.” It’s Rube. “We’ve gotta get home.”

At that moment, Steph talks to an older girl I assume is her sister. They talk, then separate, and Steph is on her own.

Walking out the gate, I see her and say to Rube, “Shouldn’t we walk with her or somethin’? You know, to make sure she doesn’t get clocked on the way home. There are some good weirdos around here.”

“We gotta be home before dark.”

“Yeah, but —”

“Well, go if y’ want,” he urges me. “I’ll tell Mumll be in a bit later. You just stopped by a mate’s place.” I stop.

“Come on,” he says, “make up y’ mind.”

I pause, go one way, then the other. I decide.

I run across the road, and once I turn to see where Rube is, he’s gone. I can’t find him anywhere. Steph’s walking up ahead. I catch up.

“Hey.” Words.
More words
, I tell myself.
Gotta say more words
. “Hey Steph, can I walk with you?”
To make sure you get home all right
, I think, but I don’t say it. It’s just not something I would say. I can only hope she knows what I mean.

“Okay,” she replies. “But isn’t this out of your way?”

“Ah, not really.”

It grows darker and there are no more words. It’s just, I have no idea what to say, or what to talk about. The only thing that makes a sound is my heartbeat, stumbling through my body as we keep going. Our walk is slow. I look at her. She looks at me a few times too. Damn, she’s beautiful. I see it under the streetlights — a world of sky in each eye, and the dark, short waves of hair and tanned skin.

It’s cold.

God, she must be cold
, and I take my jacket off and offer it to her. Still no words. Just my face, begging her to accept it. She does and she says, “Thanks.”

At her gate, she asks, “You wanna come in? You can have something to drink.”

“Oh nah,” I explain. Quiet. Too quiet! “I have to get home. I wish I could though.”

She smiles.

She smiles and takes the jacket off. When she hands it to me, I wish I could touch her fingers. I wish I could kiss her hand. I wish I could feel her lips.

“Thanks,” she says again, and when she turns and walks toward her front door, I only stand and look at her. I take all of her in. Her hair, neck, shoulders. Her back. Her jeans and her legs, walking. Her hands again, the bracelet and her fingers. Then her last smile, when she says, “Hey Cameron.”

“Yeah?”

“I might see y’ tomorrow. I think I’ll come down and have a look in the warehouse, even though I hate
fights.” She pauses a moment. “I hate betting at the dog track as well. I only go because the dogs are beautiful.”

I stand there.

Still.

I wonder,
Can a Wolfe be beautiful
? However, “That’s nice,” is what I say. We connect. Her eyes pull mine into hers.

“So yeah,” she says. “I’ll try there.” “Okay.”

Then, “Hey, just out of interest,” she asks. She considers something. “Is Rube as good a fighter as everyone says?”

I nod.

Just honestly.

“Yeah,” I say. “He is.”

“How ‘bout you?”

“Me? I’m not much really….”

There’s one more smile and she says, “Might see you tomorrow then.”

“All right,” I reply. “I hope so.”

There’s a final turn and she’s gone inside.

Once I’m alone, I stand a few more seconds and take off for home. I start running, from the adrenaline juice I taste in my throat.

Can a Wolfe be beautiful
?

Can a Wolfe be beautiful
?

I ask it as I run, with her image gathered in my mind.
I think Rube can be
, I answer,
when he’s in the
ring. He’s handsome, yet ferocious, yet devastating, yet beautiful and handsome all over again
.

At home, I make it in time for dinner.

She’s there, at the table with me. Stephanie. Steph. Eyes of sky. Sweet wrists and fingers, and waves of dark hair, and her love for the beautiful dogs at the track.